One such moment occurred, of course, in the middle of a fancy pants restaurant, the sort of place that employs people whose sole job is to scoop bread crumbs off your table with one of those who-the-hell-invented-this bread crumb scoopers.

I was with my dad, stepmom, and Dear Boyfriend and was recovering from a pretty bad IT band injury from a recent half marathon.

Between bites of filet that was so rare it was practically still mooing, my dad, in his naturally loud, booming voice, goes, “ARE YOU STILL IN REHAB?”

I swear I saw heads at nearby tables turn towards us.

Nearly snorting Diet Coke out of my nose, I hissed, “Dad, it’s called physical therapy. I’m a runner, not a heroin junkie!”

“RIGHT.” Just as loud. Probably louder. “HOW’S REHAB GOING??”

Explaining to my father that “rehab” connotes something very different than “physical therapy” was fruitless. Alas. Thanks, Dad, for making the stuffed shirts around us eye me with pity and suspicion the rest of the night.